Little Black Book

Anaesthetised. The word I would use when talking to my paediatric patients – explaining how I would be using a needle to numb their nerves, creating an invisible shield between my surgical tools and their delicate outer casing. Anaesthetised. The word I would use to describe how I felt at that very moment – the catch - there were no needles in sight. My body was creating this feeling all on its own. My brain was releasing chemicals, all as a reaction to what I had just read, with my now water filled eyes. I was numb. Cold even. The blistering heat couldn’t distract me from the cold I was feeling. The sensation continued down the length of my tall, dainty spine. One would assume that the bolts in my back would discourage me from feeling anything. However, after countless spinal surgeries my nerves remained intact. My body was in shock, perspiration left every crevasse within my exterior, with scents of terror and disgust. I looked ahead to see the lines of naked, stolen children; their terrified stares puncturing my numbing frame. One girl, a small, lanky, dark creature; stood staring at me. Looked about nine. The lanky nine-year-old frame hid the aged mind of the mature woman she was within. After all she’d seen and experienced, she had the right to be regarded as a woman. Her thin, malnourished, four fingered hand, slowly swept up, past her bony hips. Moving alongside her exposed, skin lacking, rib cage. Her hand came to a halt at the height of her shoulder. She waved. My body heaved, releasing the eggs benedict I’d eaten earlier that morning, onto my freshly manicured toes and faded Birkenstocks. His little black book fell to the floor, sending the dry, brown earth flying in all directions. I dropped to my knees. Thump thump. I could hear my heart through every fissure, every artery, every cell within my numb and shaking exterior. I looked up. The girl had moved her malnourished hand from a still wave to an extended, motherly grasp. Thwack. She landed with a thump; so loud I could identify it with the fifty-metre distance between us. The stocky, big bellied man - who created the thump - let out a deep, evil chuckle. He turned and picked up the rock he had previously chucked at her head, smirking at the speckles of blood found on its sharp, rough edges. Two strangers. Both lying on the same earth - the only difference; one still had a life, the other just had hers swept away from beneath her feet. I prayed. I didn’t believe in God - science was too existent in my life to consider a make-believe creature – especially one that didn’t have the power to stop monstrosities like this happening. Regardless, I needed something to believe in at that moment. I could feel my heart in my stomach, my chest tight with anxiety, my lungs struggling for the sauna like air I felt like I was drowning in. I wasn’t sure if I was reacting to the death of an innocent child or the words I had just seen in the little black book, which sat inches away from my right arm – now covered in the brown, African dirt. The dirt of a place I loved so much. A place I uprooted and changed my life for. A home I made for my girls. The line moved on - with my newly lost friends figure trodden on and rolled as the others were forced forward. Their bare feet standing on what could be, and quite possibly would be them. The line of young, exposed women went on for what looked like miles. There was a man posted up every five metres or so, with the support of a military rifle on their shoulder. With my gut about to release more of my eggs, I picked up his little black book and began to walk. As I struggled to move, I opened the book to find what had made me violently ill before. The Twenty-thousand-dollar cheque made out to a Mr Teddy Baraka for the sale of two hundred items – silently balancing on the coffee stained paper of his little black book. Items being women. Women being the young, nine-year-old girls trudging towards the army van – with the support of armed pigs.

I moved my index finger down the page, alongside the names of women who I assumed to be in the sex trafficking system already, or at least on their way in. As my finger moved down the two hundred names, my eyes dotted to the sparkling jewel sitting high on my ring finger. I was a part of this. This life we had worked so hard for, was all a lie. I looked over at the junior school our twin daughters were currently attending; learning and growing into human beings. He wanted the best for them – demanding they only attend private institutions, so they could become the best version of themselves possible. What made our daughters different to the women who stood before me? What made him think I wouldn’t find out about this? Did he assume I would support his choices? I had a choice. This is not the world I wanted to be a part of. My shaking hand grasped the little black book close to my heart. I breathed. I spoke the words out loud to myself, “Don’t think Anya, just do”. I began to sprint. My thick, athletic legs were wobbling beneath my enraged core. My Birkenstocks and manicured toes quickly filling with dirt. I was going to get these women free. I was going to find every man, like my husband, who used his power to make money off little girl’s bodies. I listened to myself. I didn’t think. I ran into the stocky murderer’s gut, the unexpected impact sending him flying into the dirt. I sunk my teeth deep into his sweaty, dirt covered, tattooed arm. He swore and wailed in agony, pushing my body over his. His gun was inches from my elbow. I grabbed it and pointed it towards his balding, throbbing skull. A shot came and went. So suddenly, yet so life endingly slow. I felt everywhere go cold. My hands became limp, my body became heavy – it was as if my body was coming out of sleep. But really, my soul was removing itself from my beautiful life. My final vision of life was of the exposed, stolen women standing before me – but thankfully, I was given a glimpse of my girls smiling, so innocent and free from the world that is. My beautiful babies who would have heard this gun shot and will be told of my death very shortly. Our worlds crushed and changed forever - yet the women in front of me, their worlds continued for another day. Today, more than a quarter of the world’s slaves are children. Typically, trafficked children see 25 – 48 customers a day. They work up to 12 hours a day, every day of the week; every year, a pimp earns between $150,000 to $200,000 per child. Education is a must if we want to end this enslavement of humans of all races, genders and ages. Not just for the women standing in that line, but for the past women and future women too.